


Pillmatic

by miserablehoney



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Abuse, Drug Use, M/M, Manic Episode, Pre-hiatus, Suicide Attempt, Violence, bipolar, unestablished relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-20
Updated: 2019-06-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 03:58:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19287658
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miserablehoney/pseuds/miserablehoney
Summary: He just wants to get back to the tour bus, hug Patrick, and apologize.//Unspecified Trigger Warning\\((Found this in my Google Docs, it’s been kicking around since probably before Christmas, thought I’d post it. I have another chapter of this ready if it receives good reviews. I desperately need to change my username, and I desperately need to finish my Beatles fic))





	Pillmatic

 

 

         The empty pill bottle slips from his pocket into his hands, and then from his hands onto the cracked sidewalk. The orange vessel once held some sort of medication, but his vision is too blurry to even read the prescription. Besides, he already dumped the white and blue capsules down one of the city’s sewer drains. Whatever, the pills are irrelevant to him, they always have been. He ‘ _ needs _ ’ a cocktail of prescription to even function, Ativan to stay calm, Melatonin to sleep, and a variety of other white and blue capsules just to help him work properly. He’d rather not take them; he’d rather be stuck in his own manic state of mind for all of eternity then stomach those pills.    
  
_   ‘Pete, please take your medication. You haven’t slept in three days.’ Patrick pleaded, with teary-eyed baby blues, and a fretful tone weaved into his honey-like voice.  _ __   
__   
_          “I’d rather-“ Pete paused to yawn, struggling to wipe the idea of sleep from his ‘ _ _ imbalanced _ _ ’ brain. “not.” _ __   
__   
__   
_          “For fucks sake, Wentz. You’re such an entitled bitch! Patrick has been worried sick about you. You know you need to take your medication, and you still choose not to like the selfish bastard you are. Get a fucking hold of yourself.” Joe screamed, the veins on his neck bulging out like Pete’s sharp hip bones.  _ __   
__   
_          Patrick winced, expecting sharp words to slit his wrists like razors, or for Pete to yell and scream like a leach was sucking off his cock. But the bassist just ran his fingers through his signature jet-black-hair-that-hasn’t-been washed-in-a-week and waltzed out of the tour bus. _ __   
  
         And that’s how Pete assumes he got here. Somewhere in the middle of fucking Vancouver, with flashing neon lights and strip clubs on every corner; alcoholics sobbing into shattered bottles and Pete is just merely existing,  __ numb , trying to fight off this excruciatingly exhausted feeling. He’s starting to regret dumping the pills down the drain.    
  


He’s also starting to regret walking out on Joe and Patrick like that.    
  
         He lets out a heavy sigh and kicks an empty beer can the wind had been blowing around on the street. With a sigh, he reaches into the pocket on his black skinny jeans, and pulls out his sidekick. He starts typing a message.    
  
**[11:38 PM] pete wentz:** ****  
****  
**hey patrick, im sorry for everything, i know i havent been the best person to hang around with lately but im just stressed over the release of cork tree.** ****  
  
         He presses send, and then waits one, two, three, six minutes, and after number seven, he’s afraid he isn’t going to get a response. But you know what they say, ninth time’s the charm, because after nine anxious minutes of waiting, Patrick has typed a response.    
  
**[11:47 PM] patrick stump:** ****  
****  
**it’s okay pete, but i’ve been so worried about you lately. i’m not trying to bug you, but you haven’t been yourself. i know it’s just stress but it still bothers me. joe has calmed down a lot since you guys had that argument a few hours ago,  can you please come back to the tour bus?**   
  
         Pete allowed a small grin to creep across his face. Patrick still cares about him, Patrick still wants him to come back to the tour bus. Pete doesn’t have to spend the night sleeping on the streets of Vancouver.    
  
**[11:49 PM] pete wentz:** ****  
****  
**sorry for making you worry. love ya lunchbox, i’m coming back, i’ll be there in like, half an hour.** ****  
  
         Pete’s ecstatic now, it’s astonishing how in a matter of minutes, Patrick has managed to change his mood from resentful and despondent to pure euphoric joy. Pete’s going to apologize for being a douche, then he’ll pretend to take his medication, and they can put this behind them.   
  
         He starts walking back through the streets of Vancouver, not too sure where he came from but determined to find his way back to Andy, Joe, and Patrick.    
  
         Pete turns a corner and is greeted by some dude who looks at least five inches taller than him and with an athletic build to match his well-structured face. Pete tries to walk around him, but the man abruptly stops him.    
  
         “Hey, you’re the dude from that band, right? You’re Pete Wentz.” He observed. Pete adjusts his hoodie and makes eye contact with the guy.    
  
         “Yeah, actually, I am.” Pete grinned.   
  
         “So you’re the faggot with the skinny jeans and the weak ass bass lines?”

  
         “Uh, what the fuck?” Pete responded, struggling to grasp why someone would just randomly say this to him.    
         “I fucking hate you, I wish your suicide attempt would’ve killed you. You’re all I ever fucking hear about in the media, I can’t stand you!” He yells. Pete’s fists clenched, and his jaw tightens.    
  
         “Well then don’t talk to me if you hate me so much, just leave me alone, you fucking cunt.” Pete retorts as he tries to shove himself past the guy. Unfortunately, his toned figure wouldn’t budge.    
  
         “The shit singer in your band would look good on his knees with a cock down his throat.” He smirks. That’s it, Pete finally snaps, like a door on loose hinges.    
  
         “Don’t you ever fucking talk about my band mates like that again!” Pete screams, bringing his fist up to the dude’s face. He falls to his knees, with streams of blood running from his probably broken nose. Everything happened so fast that Pete wasn’t sure if he was willing to handle the consequences of this. Impulsively, Pete’s taking the opportunity to sprint down the street, turn an alley and jump a fence, his converse pounding the ground as he sprints. He was sure that he didn’t breathe until he had ditched the guy. Exhaustingly, he slumps down on the concrete, as limp as a rag-doll. Pete gasps and takes the time to inspect the scrapes on his knuckles and the guy’s blood staining his yellow hoodie. He’s positive that the media will turn this into some sort of scandal, but Pete is running out of fucks left to give. Maybe Pete shouldn’t have punched the guy, maybe Pete should’ve stayed and fought him, but he can’t be causing his band any more trouble than he already has. Pete’s the frontman, he simply cannot afford to screw this up. 

  
He just wants to get back to the tour bus, hug Patrick, and apologize.    
  


**Author's Note:**

> hey guys, glad you stuck around to read this piece of shit. it’s probably been kicking around in my google docs since christmas, maybe even before that. i’m sorry for not really giving a really good trigger warning, but i don’t want to spoil anything. i’m choosing not to rate this. if y’all like it, i might post the second chapter. i have a beatles fanfiction i’m working on too, so maybe stick around for that.


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